A friend of mine–a published children’s author of note, an amazingly creative soul, a wonderful Facebook poster–shared a quote from E. B. White yesterday: “I haven’t told why I wrote the book, but I haven’t told why I sneeze, either. A book is a sneeze.”

A sneeze.  Something that you feel compelled to do, yet can’t explain, and really doesn’t involve a great deal of forethought.  (Indeed, forethought seems to kill a lot of my sneezes.  And I hate that.  Because you need to sneeze, and you can’t.)

Anyway.

I have been letting my brain pass over this thought since she posted the quote, because I am accustomed to the sense that the writing process is Very Important.  And Challenging.  And possibly Serious. And also probably requires a great deal more focus than I am able to give it.

Right now I am typing as I lie (lay? lie? lay?  I always start second-guessing myself…) on my stomach on the sofa.  My son, who stayed home from his enrichment program today with a slight cold is reading “This is my monster,” which involves pressing a button that makes a roaring sound.  And because he is a fairly fast reader, the monster is roaring approximately every ten seconds.  And now he is asking, “When will it be time to pick Lily up?” because, after all, she is the cruise director.  This is the kind of focus of which I am currently capable.

A.W. Tozer’s advice on writing has served as my Platonic ideal:

(Sorry, brief interruption as I fix a green army paratrooper.)

A.W. Tozer’s advice on writing has served as my Platonic ideal: “The only book that should ever be written is the one that flows up from the heart, forced out by the inward pressure.”  Yes, yes, I reply!  Enough of these half-witted books about nothing, these poorly constructed diatribes, these lackluster rambles!  I shall only create Good Books, Flowing from the Heart, Forced Out Through Inward Pressure!  Only meaningful and useful and worthwhile and beautiful books.

(Ah, sorry.  Another moment of re-tying the army man to his parachute.  And, in return, receiving the accolade, “Mommy, you are the best at fixing stuff.”  Oh, little man, how I love you.)

The bottom line is that I want to write worthwhile books.  I want to commit to paper a story that will stir hearts and minds and point to Truth with a Big T.  I want to contribute to the greater conversation.

(And yet I know that there is a story being written in the margins that is my true life’s work.  And I know it can be a both/and rather than an either/or, but I also know what my focus is right now.)

I think that E. B. White is amazing because he sneezed Charlotte’s Web into existence.  I want to sneeze a beloved book into existence.  Wouldn’t that be remarkable?

So, I will continue to fill my mind with the snippets of stories–family history, tales of survival and overcoming than led to the simple fact of my existence–and good essays, and I will observe my children playing in the waves and I will nurture deep old friendships and some new ones and perhaps one day I will sneeze, and a beloved children’s classic will be born.

Isn’t that how fairies are born?

But excuse me.  I need to go help a small boy who just discovered a little green frog.